


A Fresh Start

by GinAndShatteredDreams



Series: The Man Downstairs AU [4]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Apologies, Brothers, Family Bonding, Gen, Guilt, Hurt and comfort, Medical Restraints, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sibling Bonding, Stan trying to escape his past, Stangst, and Ford helping, like seriously they're both drowning in it, mention of faking a death, straitjacket, thank yous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:47:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26368930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinAndShatteredDreams/pseuds/GinAndShatteredDreams
Summary: Stan has been helping Ford for a few months since he saved him from being lost to the nightmare realm, but, one night, he has a nightmare of his own that leads to Ford finding a way to help him in return.(A flashback scene from The Man Downstairs AU. Probably reading it sometime after chapter 15 would make more sense but it's mostly fleshing out some things that have only been referenced in the main story and diving into Stan's past a bit.)
Series: The Man Downstairs AU [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1903153
Comments: 27
Kudos: 34





	A Fresh Start

**Author's Note:**

> ~Bill can still only possess Ford while he's asleep at this point  
> ~Ford is both still dealing with the weight of the guilt from when he tried to kill Stan without active possession thanks to Bill altering his memories and trying to rethink everything about the ideals their father taught them while growing up.

**May, 1982**

Ford awoke, curled up on his side, to the nose-tingling scent of fresh-cut wood and a sneeze that alerted him to a more pressing matter than his irritated sinuses. Groaning, he opened his eyes to the half-renovated basement, lit solely by a nightlight plugged in beside the doorway to the portal's former control room.

“Stanley,” he half-croaked, unsure if he was willing to disrupt his brother’s steady snore. A pathetic “ow,” squeezed through his throat as a prickling rush replaced the numbness in his left arm, bound beneath him by his own behest within a grudgingly effective demon deterrent- a straitjacket. He shifted his body weight, giving himself momentum and leverage to sit up despite his incapacitated arms.

He grumbled, blinking hard against the grogginess trying to pull him back down. _I doubt I’ll ever acclimatize to sleeping like this,_ he thought. But at least it WAS sleep. And at least he could do so in peace, knowing he wouldn’t awaken to mysterious injuries, to blood spatters that may or may not have been his own, or to a suddenly functional doomsday device. At least, with even a small amount of uncomfortable sleep, he could gets some things done during his waking hours and even go out for walks or a meal as long as Stan was there to stop him from nodding off.

He wiggled as much as he could, mostly wishing he could shake the pins and needles out of his arm, but between the cloth wrapped around him and the length of fleece-covered rope tethering him to the padded corner, there wasn’t much he could do but either find the resolve to wake his brother or hope his bladder could hold out until he awoke on his own.

Through the dimness, he could barely make out his brother’s figure, curled up inside a sleeping bag on the floor a few feet away from him and using his Taxidermy for Blockheads book as a pillow. Stan had insisted on sleeping in the basement partially for this reason, hadn’t he? He’d told him to wake him if he needed anything… But he was sleeping so soundly and...

_He’s done so much for me these past few months. He needs the rest._

After they'd dismantled the portal, Stan had helped him dispose of the parts that could be safely recycled or taken to the dump. As for the alien tech, rather than return it to the UFO crash site where malevolence might find it, they agreed to guard it themselves behind the wall to which Ford was currently bound. They’d installed a layer of cinder blocks, locking the parts behind it in the cavernous back half of the basement where the portal itself once stood. The front half was on its way to becoming a sizable padded room where Ford could sleep comfortably without the straitjacket or restraints to prevent Bill from harming others or himself.

They’d installed studs and wood panels to frame the room and act as a base for thick, foam padding. It was just yesterday that they finished padding the corner where he currently sat, but there was still a lot of wall to cover and their funds had drained to the point of offering a credit card for the purchase of a bolt of clearance upholstery cotton and a used sewing machine. Ford’s grant money was gone, his savings drained, and his prospects for the future decimated, but Stan had discovered he could give tours of the upstairs labs, using his dazzling showmanship to earn enough for food. With Ford’s reluctant permission, Stan had begun putting together exhibits to draw in tourists.

Not only was Stan protecting him from Bill’s clutches and assuring they ate, he was finding every way to provide him comfort, right down to sewing the fleece tube around the rope binding him to the wall, so Bill couldn’t inflict rope burns on his cheeks, and configuring it so it provided just enough slack to move a bit but not enough length to become a noose.

_He's done so much. Helped me even though I... How do you apologize for trying to kill your own brother? And how do you apologize for ten years-_

Stan's snore faltered. He mumbled something unintelligible then, "No, how did you find me here?" and squirmed within his sleeping bag, thrashing violently when it restricted his movements and outright screaming, "Get off of me!"

"Stanley!" Ford yelled, leaning as far forward as his bonds would allow, "Stan wake up! Please, wake up!"

He let out a yell like he'd been thrown to his death as his body jerked upright, his eyes peeling open.

"Stanley, are you alright?"

He panted, chest heaving like he'd just surfaced for air after escaping an undertow. Everything was dark, he was tangled in something, and cold sweat dripped through his overgrown not-really-a-mullet-anymore and into his eyes. _I didn't make it. They got me. What now?_ Somewhere far away, he heard a familiar voice call his name, asking if he was alright. _Ford. Oh no. They got him_ _too?! No! NO!_ He could see a shadow bound in the corner and his heart lodged itself in his throat. _Stan you idiot! You got him sucked into your mess too! Why'd you stay? Why didn't you tell him? Why did you think you'd be able to hide?!_

"Stanley, it's alright. You're safe. You're in a sleeping bag in the basement of my... Our cabin." He barely heard his brother's voice but nevertheless, struggled to focus on it as it instructed, "Stanley, breathe with me." He followed his lead, breathing in for six counts and out for eight.

His hands flexed within the sleeping bag, finding the soft flannel of a pajama shirt and focusing on how smooth its buttons were between his fingers. _Sleeping bag. Basement. Our Cabin. Pajamas. Ford bought these for me._ They were the first set he'd had since they were teens living at home. Calming down, he found the clarity to slip his hands out from inside the sleeping bag and free his legs. _It's true then. I got away. I'm safe. For now. And so is Ford._

_No. He's not... Bill!_

"Ford?" the name came out in a ragged rasp. He'd meant to ask if he was alright, if Bill had hurt him overnight but before he could share his concern, Ford shared his.

"Yes, it's me. Are you feeling a little better?"

"A bit, yeah," he answered, suddenly glad the lack of light hid the embarrassment rising in his cheeks.

"Nightmares are Hell," Ford said with such empathy that it hurt to hear.

But it did make Stan feel less like a child, cowering in his bottom bunk after a monster movie-induced nightmare. "Yeah. No kidding," he said with a dry almost-laugh. With one more breath, he found the steadiness to stand and shuffle his way toward the door to the portal's former control room. “Gonna turn on the light,” he warned.

Ford squinted, feeling himself inadvertently shrink back into the corner under the sudden visibility of his self-imposed humiliation.

Stan stretched and yawned, blinking until he could see the mess of construction supplies near what used to be the control room's window and a folding table set up near the middle of the room with a sewing machine atop it and the remnants of fabric and foam strewn around it.

"So," Ford offered in as comforting of a tone as his gravely morning voice would allow, "Do you want to talk about it? The nightmare?"

"Maybe after we get you out of all that," he said, eyeing how scrunched and uncomfortable his twin looked, arms wound around him, hair sticking up in tangled brown curls, and dried blood flaking off his cheek like a neon sign flashing "Bill was here." He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering just how much sleep Ford had managed, if any, and asked, "You feel awake enough or you want some coffee first?"

The thought of drinking anything made his, "No, bathroom first," almost comically urgent.

****

A warm breeze ruffled the kitchen curtains and the morning sun filtered through towering pines into spots and spatters across the table. Ford, showered, shaved, and changed into a white button down shirt and green sweater vest, found Stan already inside, adding barely enough soap to a sink full of last night's dirty dishes.

He'd shaved and changed into the jeans and red striped shirt he'd picked out when Ford took him clothes shopping (he still swore he'd pay the nerd back for it) but decided he'd have a bath later that night, still thankful to have a tub to soak in again. He never trusted the ones in the motels he could afford and stuck to quick showers when he had the opportunity. He hated to admit it was partly because he didn't want to be caught naked and off guard by one of those poor bastards Rico hired to do his dirty work. Though, as his nightmare pointed out, it wasn't out of the question that they could find him here. 

He shook his head and drove his arms elbow deep into the warm, soapy water, still thankful after these few months for something as mundane as washing the dishes or even having dishes to wash. "So," he said in an effort to distract himself, "I think I read enough of that book to try making something to show off to tourists. We just gotta come up with some cash to buy some taxidermy supplies."

"There are a few more artifacts in my study we could sell," Ford suggested, pouring a cup of coffee for his brother and himself and setting them on the table.

"More Bill stuff?" he asked, letting a glass slip out of his hand and back into the water to avoid breaking it in his fist. They'd already sold some gold statues and a necklace and Bill had made his disapproval sickeningly clear. At the time, they'd set up "safe" sleeping quarters in the closet in Ford's study with as many pillows as they could spare stapled to the walls. But even with Ford bound in the straitjacket, it wasn't enough. Bill had used his teeth to tear one down and the wall behind to break his nose, leaving him with the message to never touch his effigies again.

"Yeah. More Bill stuff," he answered with a growled finality that meant no argument would sway him, no matter how logical. "I don't care what he does. I want it gone."

"If that's what you want," he said in a resigned sigh, "we can take a trip into town to see if the jewelry store will buy any of it and pawn the rest." He picked up the glass to wash it a second time, stifling a bitter laugh at the thought that their dad would probably be thrilled to sell solid gold statues and whatever else Ford had collected in his own shop. But there was no way either of them would come that close to telling him about any of this. Their lives were embarrassing enough without him calling them failures and losers. But ma was another story. They really did need to work up the courage to call her sometime soon and at least tell her they'd reconciled. She'd be happy to know. But would it put her in danger? Would Rico's thugs go after her? Would Bill?

"You know," Ford's lighter tone Snapped Stan out of his own head, "If we transform the labs into a tourist attraction, it would be nice if we could include some scientific elements along with the whimsy of your exhibits."

"Yeah? Whadda ya got in mind?"

"Something like a hands-on science museum, where people can interact with demonstrations and learn while enjoying themselves," he answered, reaching for a box of Overly Sensitive Owl cereal on the top shelf beside the fridge.

His voice shifted from uncertain to enthusiastic as he replied,"That... Actually sounds marketable, I like it! We could call it The Murder Hut of Weirdness and Wonder!"

"Or just stick to the Museum of Weirdness and Wonder," he laughed, reaching past Stan for two of the bowls he'd just washed and setting them on the table with the cereal box.

"Psh, boring. It's gotta have a sense of mystery to it to draw people in, ya know?" he said with a shrug, handing two just-washed glasses to Ford.

"Well, we'll think about it. For now, We'll stick to your exhibits and calling it the Murder Hut." Ford said, drying the glasses and setting them on the table, "And when we find out how to keep Bill out of my head, we'll add a building onto the back for the science part. And, when we've made enough profit, we'll buy a new boat and retire early to a life of treasure hunting." It was nice to dream again. Even if they might never find a way to stop Bill, at least they had hope. 

"And babes!" Stan added with a chuckle, dunking a cast iron pan into the sink. In a more somber tone, he asked, "You have any luck with remembering how to keep Bill out of your head?"

"No. Nothing," he answered, pulling out his chair to face Stan and the sink and flopping into it. He covered his face with his hands, glasses tipping up into his curls. He couldn't remember much from the past ten years, he assumed, because Bill didn't want him to. It was cruel that he let him remember there was a way but not what it was. He sighed, lowering his hands to drape over his knees and said, "If only I hadn't let go of my journal."

"Oh sure,"Stan huffed in his snarkiest tone, practically dropping the iron pan onto the drying rack and rattling the plates left there from two days ago. "If only you'd held onto it instead of grabbing the rope to pull yourself out of Bill's Hell dimension."

Ford gave him a disgruntled glare, not that he turned to see it, and explained in a growing growl directed at himself, "I could have put it in my pocket or something, but no, I had to panic and let go of it!"

"Hey, hey, it's alright," he said, looking over his shoulder and raising a bubble-covered hand in a reassuring wave, "You said you hid more of em somewhere. Maybe we'll find them."

"Unless Bill just made me think there were more," he said with an audible pout.

"Yeah," Stan conceded. Given the fading scar on his stomach from when they'd nearly killed each other thanks to Bill's meddling, it was undeniably apparent that he could alter Ford's memories. "Nothing like using a guy's own mind to gaslight him, huh?" he offered in sympathy, turning to find his brother slumped over his knees in his chair, head resting in his hands. "I still think it's suspicious that we haven't found any photos or anything of you from the past ten years." he thought aloud, drying his hands on his jeans. "But," he offered with every bit of confidence he could muster, "we'll keep trying! And we'll at least get the basement fixed up so you'll have a safe place to sleep in the meantime."

"Thank you, Stanley," he said, looking up with a faint smile and tired eyes, "You’ve done so much for me but... It feels like there’s nothing I can do in return aside from offer my verbal gratitude.”

“Well, you already let me stay here with you," he said, waving it off and turning back to drain the sink. With a shrug, he added, "Beats living in my car.”

“I hardly think that counts. How would you be able to help if you weren’t staying here?” He asked, lifting himself to his feet and turning toward the fridge.

“So… You only want me to stay because I’m helping you?” he jokingly asked, wiping the sink down with a sponge.

“No! That’s not what I meant," Ford nearly hit his head on the inside of the fridge as he tried to back out. He held up his hands, a nearly empty milk bottle clutched in one and a carton of orange juice in the other, and waving them in a nervous gesture, "I mean, it would be like telling an employee that their office space is compensation enough for their work.”

“Ford," he turned, hands on his hips and said, "if you’re suggesting you think you need to pay me like all I am to you is hired help-”

“No I-! Oh this isn’t coming out right…" he fumbled over his words, setting the milk and orange juice on the table in favor of rubbing the back of his neck, "I mean, perhaps there is much I don't remember from after dad threw you out but I know I failed you and now you’re helping me despite it. And there isn’t much I can do to show you that, even though I wasn’t there for you before, I want to be now.”

“Eh, just knowing you feel that way is good enough,” he said with a shrug and turned back to the sink, scrubbing at a ring of calcium around the faucet's base.

“Stanley… Why?” he asked, the floorboards creaking under his feet as he stepped closer.

“Why, what?”

“Why _are_ you helping me so much?"

It sounded nervous at first, like he was still unsure if Bill had some hold over him. Stan thought they were past it, that there was no question anymore. He let out a breath and relaxed when Ford rested his hand lightly over his back where the still-angry burn scar marred his skin.

"Why?" he continued, his voice heavy with guilt, "When I’ve just hurt you more.”

Stan laughed in an attempt to sound reassuring and answered, "Well… I mean, I know you didn’t mean for that to happen and if I held it against you-”

His hand lowered as he interrupted, “You’d be no different than me holding what happened with my project against you.”

“No! I mean…" He let the sponge flop into its holder on the ledge behind the sink and turned to find his brother rubbing his arm and looking quite small. "No. This was different because I… Never got the chance to explain or apologize," he said, pulling out his chair and flopping into it then motioning for Ford to take his seat. "I went straight for defense and pushed what I wanted onto you without so much as a sorry. But you? The second I got burned, you stopped fighting and apologized but I was the idiot who kept lashing out. And I went and pushed you into some hell dimension and nearly lost you again!”

“Stop saying that! You’re not an idiot," he snapped, taking his seat and cradling his coffee cup. "And anyway... You saved me.”

“And then you took care of my burn. So it's not that I won't hold it against you because I think I’m better or more whatever than you. It’s because you did everything you could to make up for it." He lifted his cup and downed half of it before continuing, "But yeah. I guess… I get what you’re saying about all that time we were apart. And… I was mad that you never even tried to call me. But I guess," he thought for a moment about all those times he tried to call Ford. Sometimes it was to lie and say he was doing great. Sometimes, to beg for help. But every time, he'd hung up before saying a word. "I guess I didn't talk to you either. I know what I did hurt you and I still feel like shit about it but did you really need to cut me out of your life because of it?”

“That’s what I mean. I…" he sighed, staring into his cup and said, "Bill altered and erased so many of my memories from that decade but I do remember mom telling me whenever she heard something from or about you. I'm ashamed to say that dad's influence tinted how I felt about hearing you'd been arrested every so often." He didn't want to mention how upset their mom was every time, how she'd cried because Stanley was a good boy who deserved better, how some part of him agreed with her but he used his own anger as a weapon to beat it down. "I'm sorry. for hurting you," he looked Stan in the eye when he said it. "It doesn’t matter what I thought or why. I hurt you and I’m sorry.”

“And I’m sorry too. I mean… I should have said it ten years ago. Accident or not I hurt you and I’m sorry." He broke eye contact to stare into his own cup as he continued, "And maybe that’s part of why I want to help you now. Or, I dunno. Maybe it’s selfish in itself. Maybe I just want you to like me again. For us to be brothers again.” _It is selfish._ He scolded himself, _I can't stay here. But he needs help... What am I supposed to do?_

“Maybe I _was_ hurt for all of those years," Ford said. Of all the things Bill had erased, he'd left the ingrained numbness that came from too much pain and anger and... Something else all at once. And for the first time in all those years, he was finally letting himself acknowledge what it was. "But I think…" he continued, looking down to his cup, "it was _because_ I never stopped wanting you to be my brother. I wanted to trust you," with a light laugh and a shrug, he added, "Turns out, I still did...”

“Heh…" Stan laughed. _You shouldn't trust me..._ He shook his head, reached for the cereal box and poured himself a bowlful. "Gotta say it was a bit flattering that I was the one person you thought you could trust enough to reach out to." His words betrayed his thoughts and his smile drooped into a pensive frown as he added, "And I managed to screw that up too." He perched his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his palms, groaning, "Ugh. I AM an idiot.” It wasn't just their fight and the portal... He hadn't told Ford everything yet and every second that went by made his offence that much worse. Ford _had_ trusted him... And he was still failing him.

“We both screwed up that day," Ford said, reaching out to rest his hand on Stan's arm. "I was messed up because of Bill and you were..." He paused, hearing Stan's nightmare induced yells replay in his head. In a husky whisper, he continued, "Homeless. Shit, Stanley, I'm so sorry."

They sat in silence for a moment while Stan's mind churned, trying to find the right words to tell him. Instead, he reached over to fill Ford's bowl with cereal and offered, "It's in the past now," wishing it was true. 

"I don't know that it is," Ford said, making Stan wonder if somehow he knew the truth already. Stan hid his sigh of relief when Ford simply reached over to pour some milk in his bowl and asked, "Is that what your nightmare was about this morning?"

"Well, sort of," Stan said, poking at his cereal with his spoon and wondering how he could explain it without saying too much. Or worse, how to actually tell Ford... "It was more about the guys who were after me when I got your postcard. I messed up a heist bad and got the boss caught along with me. We were in jail in Colombia for a while and when we got out, I... Took off."

Ford sighed and,in a tone far too close to their father's for his liking asked, "I just can't understand what about getting involved with... With organized crime sounded like a good idea to you. Couldn't you have simply gotten a job?"

"Oh yeah, sure," Stan snapped, slamming his spoon down and crossing his arms. "Unimpressively scraping barnacles off of a dock or whatever. Yeah. That would've made dad welcome me right back into the family with open arms!" This was everything he was afraid of. He'd barely scraped the truth's surface and was already getting the dad lecture from his brother. He braced himself for another argument, already rehearsing comebacks in his mind.

No part of him expected what came next.

"...I'm sorry," Ford said, looking up to him with eyes that honestly tried to understand, "I assumed... I don't even know what."

"That that was the life I WANTED?" he huffed, still in defense mode, "That I willingly chose that?"

"Not quite," Ford answered, "More like, between dad's ranting about his ideals and my own need to feel... Less guilty, I convinced myself that you had other options and chose not to take them."

"I tried to take the ones dad would have been proud of!" he yelled, banging his fist on the table so hard their spoons clattered against it and milk spilled from their bowls. "Be independent, pull yourself up by your bootstraps or whatever bullshit, stop crying and do something useful!"

Ford's hands curled into fists. He took a deep breath, fighting against their father's voice pounding those ideals into his head, struggling not to argue back with what seemed so logical at one time in his life but was being proven wrong before his eyes over the past few months -years, even. Finally, he found a neutral ground from which to think and speak, the same one he'd struggled to find whenever he so badly wanted a hypothesis to be true but the evidence needed to be considered from all angles. "...So," he said calmly, "what happened?"

The question came as if it offered a place for Stan to speak freely, without judgment. The tension released from his shoulders and chest and his fist uncurled, his hands lowering to his lap. "Like I said," he began, unsure of exactly how much he could bear to say but letting it out anyway. Maybe it was better to just rip the bandage off now.

"It started as an idea to legitimately make something of myself. I was gonna invent something great and sell it for millions and be a proper successful entre-whatever-they're-called. But no one would give a loan to a seventeen-year-old dropout who lived in his car." From the look on his face, Ford hadn't considered that part before. Even so, he could almost hear him saying "so why didn't you work for the money instead?" as if he could ever make enough to both live and start a business when hardly anyone would even hire him. But Ford remained silent, his expression mostly blank with a hint of compassion in the lines around his eyes.

Stan took it as a cue to continue, "But this guy named Rico. He said he'd invest in my ideas, that I could pay him back when things took off. So I started developing products and making commercials. But, it turned out I wasn't any good at making things that were, well, good. And I just wanted to get to the part where it made money so dad would finally..." He couldn't stand the pained look on his brother's face at that comment and cut himself short with, "Ugh, the point is, I cut corners and made claims that weren't true and people thought I was just a conman. No one would buy anything from my company and I ran out of money. Then Rico came to collect. When I couldn't pay, he said he could either make an example of me or I could work off my debt. I didn't feel like getting the tar beat out of me then ending up at the bottom of a river so, I said I'd work for him."

There was a time when Stan had wanted to tell Ford that part, just to see the horrified expression on his face, to see how he'd react to knowing the Hell his life had been. Now that it was right in front of him, he was sorry he ever thought of it. He wanted to stop. Wanted to let things go and just get back to enjoying breakfast but somehow, the story kept spilling out.

"I Didn't think that would mean being the fall guy in a few international heists. After a few stints in jail, a few stab wounds, and having to throw one too many boxing matches, I couldn't take it anymore. I wanted to get away. Or, well, it wasn't so much a decision as it was a haze that ended with me in my car, driving to New Mexico. I don't even know how you found me there," he admitted. He hadn't even told their mother where he went. Just that he was out of jail and safe for the moment. "I was trying to lie low until I could come up with actual cash to pay back the rest of what I owed so I wouldn't have to be his pawn anymore."

Rather than passing any judgment, Ford opted for an explanation. "I called mom to try to find you. I lied to her. Said I was fine. The part where I said I just missed you... Wasn't as much of a lie as I wanted it to be. That might be the only reason she didn’t call me out on it. But, she didn't know where you were. I almost gave up but got lucky and ran across a sort-of divination spell that actually worked."

"Yeah so," Stan sat back in his chair with crossed arms, hoping to wrap things up with, "I got your card and now here I am."

"I'm not sure that completely answers the question about your nightmare," Ford said, mirroring his pose but in a less laid back and more stern way.

Stan rolled his eyes. _Of course he'd notice..._

"I mean, I get the idea. And if you'd rather not say exactly what happened, then I understand."

Stan could practically see things clicking into place in Ford's mind as he rambled, dreading the moment when he'd realize there was a loose end to his story.

"Wait."

_Yup. There it is._

"Does that mean this Rico guy is still after you?" he asked with wide eyes.

He shrank in his seat and let out a nervous, "Uh. Kinda, yeah."

Ford’s brows flattened, the muscles in his face tensing, and Stan braced himself for a barrage, for the "You bastard, I trusted you!" he deserved.

Instead, he said with something resembling protective determination, "How much do you still owe him? Can we pay it?"

He cringed with his answer, "...A lot. So. No, probably not."

"And he's probably out for blood now that you escaped?" He asked, resting his elbows on the table with his fingers tented under his chin.

"Uh, yeah," He said, vaguely appreciating that his brother saw it as escaping rather than running away.

Ford took a deep breath and Stan thought for sure this was it. He'd tell him to get out. He'd ask "how dare you come here and put my life in danger too."

Instead, he spoke in a warm, rational tone, something that reminded him of their mother. "Is that what your nightmare was about? That he found you here?"

"...Yeah"

Another inhale and Stan didn't know how much more he could take. He tried to reassure himself that maybe Ford wouldn't kick him out. He still needed his help, right? Maybe he'd just yell at him and they could still have a chance to work things out. Maybe...

With the same understanding warmth, Ford said, "What you need is a fresh start."

"Pfft, that would be nice, wouldn't it? Just wake up tomorrow morning and not have any of that hanging over me," he griped.

"Indeed, it would be nice," Ford leaned forward, fingers intertwined. The sun glinted off his glasses making him look almost villainous but in a way where Stan wanted to know where he was going with this. With a grin like they were kids planning to steal cookies fresh from their mom's tray, he said, "I think we can make it happen."

Stan's nerves still twitched as he tried to joke, "What do you got something that'll erase their memories of me or something?"

"No. Nothing like that should ever exist," Ford said flatly. He wasn't sure why he felt so strongly about that, nor why the idea of it sounded familiar. Pushing it aside, his lips formed light smile as he lifted his head and explained, "What I do have is... Me."

"Huh?"

"My identity. You should take my identity," he said picking up his spoon to stir his now soggy cereal.

"HA! I can't be Dr Nerd-pants!" Stan snorted with a laugh, slapping his knee. "And what about you?"

He sighed, his smile sagging as he said, "I have no intention of trying to live an even remotely public life while a demon keeps me constantly exhausted, possesses me anytime I nod off, and alters my mind to the point where I'm not sure if I'm speaking English anymore. It's best if I disappear for now and you take my place."

"What, No!" he protested, pushing himself closer to the table to rest his elbows on it.

"Think about it. It’s a uh…" He let out a light laugh and continued, "A mostly a fresh start… There was that toxic waste incident.”

“Toxic waste incident?”

“Yeah, fuel for the portal," he said with a shrug, "I had to get it somewhere.”

“Wait wait wait," Stan leaned over the table, pointing to his brother, "Mr. Goody-nerd-shoes is a felon?”

“No! I mean. Maybe," he looked up from stirring his cereal and shoved a bite in his mouth as if to stop himself from saying anything else incriminating. He swallowed and continued, "Anyway, I assure you no one will never link it to me. Besides, I was doing them a favor by disposing of it.”

“Ha, sure," he said with a knowing grin, taking a bite of his own sludgy cereal. With his mouth still partially full, he added, "You sound like me trying to justify stealing stolen goods from that loan shark in Vegas...”

"Which you wouldn't have to worry about doing again if-"

"Yeah, yeah," he snorted, folding his arms over the table as if giving in to thinking seriously about the idea. "So, say I agree to this. What happens to my identity in this scenario?"

"Stanley Pines can be so well-hidden that even his twin and his own mother don't know where he is," he suggested, "At least, until we figure things out."

"Nuh-uh," he said, shaking his head. "They'll still keep looking. They'll try to contact you to uh... Extract information and they'll find me here instead. Or worse, you. And I don't just mean 'cause they'll break your hands or something. They find you, they find Bill, too." He was still surprised Ford hadn't screamed at him about that and kept going as if to stop him from having the chance, "But if they see me here, they'll figure things out. If, we're gonna do this thing, we gotta kill Stan Pines in a way that makes them give up."

"What? No!"

"Think about it," he said, grabbing his empty glass and tipping it on its side. "We fake my death. At least for now. Car crash, body burned up with nothing but ash left. In the meantime, we run this place and save up some cash until I can pay off my debt. And we can use this as a way to keep the family out of all this possible apocalypse and Bill mess until we figure it out too."

"Then what happens when we 'figure it out'?" Ford asked, eyeing Stan's glass like it really was a burned up corpse.

"Then Stan Pines shows up again," he said, turning it upright and filling it with orange juice. "Survived the crash somehow and lived in the woods with amnesia like the guys on the soap operas." Not that he ever watched them. No, he definitely didn't turn the TV on during the day whenever he could afford a motel just for some sense of human interaction.

"That's crazy. But..." Ford said, filling his own cup, "It might just work."

"Ma's gonna know, though. I mean, five fingers for one thing." he said wiggling his fingers.

"I'd spoken to her in the past about having my extra fingers surgically removed," Ford admitted, lifting his coffee cup and taking a sip, "She was against it but, it would be believable if I'd done it anyway."

"Still, the family's gonna know I'm not you when I suddenly stop science-ing and open a tourist trap," he said swirling the last of his coffee in his cup then drinking it down.

Ford put on a mock-dramatic voice, like something out of the soap operas Stan mentioned and said, "'Stanford Pines was never the same again after losing his twin. He blamed himself for the wreck, having sent the post card that caused him to be on the road that night. He gave up his life's work and ended up running a tourist attraction.'"

"Would anyone believe that?" He said with a laugh, part of him wishing it could be true but part believing there was no way. He was again surprised at his brother's answer.

"Yeah. Actually, they would. I was mad at you but... I think even dad could tell that I missed you, judging from the number of times he told me to suck it up or he'd give me something to cry about."

That hit Stan like a baseball bat to the ribs. "Wait, cry?" he stammered, "You-?"

"Yes," he threw his hands up then folded his arms in defeat. "I fucking bawled my eyes out the night dad kicked you out," he huffed. His tone turned morose as he added, "And pretty much every night that summer. I WAS angry. But I was scared too. And I didn't want to admit that it felt like half of me was suddenly gone!" He nearly teared up at the last part but clenched his fists, holding it in.

"That makes two of us," Stan admitted, "I wanted to believe I could do things on my own, that I didn't need you or anyone. But every time the sun went down and I was sitting in my car, I lost it."

"Heh," Ford breathed, his attention focused on the bottom of his empty coffee cup. "We're still a mess, aren't we?"

"Yeah."

"I guess, at least we're a mess together now," he said, looking up to Stan with a hopeful smile. "And maybe, now that we're helping each other, we can get out of our respective messes."

"Maybe. But I'm surprised you're okay with all this. Why aren't you... I mean, I kinda lied to you when you trusted me and probably like, put your life in danger and stuff... And you're still okay with helping me?"

"I can’t say I’m happy about that part but, I do understand it. Besides, better late than never?" he offered.

"Ha... I guess so."

"So what do you say?" Ford asked, leaning on the table in that mischievous pose where the sun glared against his glasses again, "Shall we con the world into believing you're me?"

"It sounds tempting when you put it that way..." he agreed. It was worth a shot at least. "Yeah. Yeah! Let's do it. I mean, it's only gonna be until we figure this out, right? How long could that take?"


End file.
